Happy Birthday

She was only 17 when her daughter was born. She thinks back to that day as she measures out the dry ingredients, flour, sugar, baking powder. She sets out the butter and places it near the bourbon vanilla and chocolate. The recipe calls for a bit of espresso, but she always leaves that out because she does not want her daughter having espresso, it can’t be good for a child.

The day her daughter floated into her life, it was gray and quiet; her very favorite kind of day. Maybe because she was so young on the day her daughter made her way out of her protective womb, it seemed as if she had always been a part of her.

She felt the first surge of pain just before the middle of the day. No one was with her, so she called an uber.

She answered very politely when asked to confirm her destination, “yes, I’m going to St. Michael’s on Harbor Street”.

The driver never suspected she was in labor. She moaned internally and squeezed her backpack, grateful that she’d stuffed her hoodie inside the large pocket. The perspiration felt wet and cool under her arms and she was sure tiny beads of sweat must be making themselves seen around her temple. She couldn’t remember if she’d used an antiperspirant. She took deep breaths because somewhere she’d learned that this small exercise could help alleviate some of the pain.

“Here we are,” the driver said as he looked toward the sliding glass doors in front of St. Michael’s Hospital.

“Thank you,” she said while she slowly slid across the back seats, ever so careful as if a sudden movement would cause another pain. She placed her hand on the door handle to pull it, that’s when the pain began to rise, it mounted inside of her…breathe, breathe, breathe, she whispered to herself.

“Are you okay?” she could hear the concern in the driver’s voice.

If only she could answer, breathe, breathe, breathe… the pain diminished.

“Yes,” she finally answered, “my sweater was just caught,” she stepped out onto the sidewalk.

That day would always be a surreal memory, as if it was happening to someone else. There are slides of memories, organized in tiny cells in the deepest parts of her mind.

“Insurance? Sign this,” a clipboard was pushed into her hands. She wondered if anyone noticed her hands quivering.

“Is there anyone with you?” another voice echoed behind her.

“you’re dilated to 8, it’ll be soon,” she felt scared.

“Get her to delivery!”

“Push, push…”

Fragments, slides of memories, haziness that all lead up to the sound of a baby’s cry. It was so sweet.

On her first birthday, they woke up in a shelter. Fifty beds in a room, all women and some children in a myriad of ages.

“Hi, didn’t you say today was your baby’s birthday?” a girl asked, who looked to be not much older than her little sister, who was not even in high school yet.

“Yes, it’s her birthday,” she smiled because besides herself, and this girl, no one else remembered.

The young girl pushed a Hostess cupcake into her hand, “this is for your baby, maybe I can find a candle?”

“It’s ok, I’m not sure how much she’ll eat anyway. She’s been coughing all night,” she felt her forehead and arms, the heat… she thought maybe, a fever. “More than a candle, I’d like to find a thermometer.”

She beat two eggs and added in the bourbon vanilla and butter, along with a dash of milk. She usually forgot, but this time remembered to warm the oven, 350 degrees.

On her second birthday, they were living in a room she rented in a house. The woman who owned the house helped young mothers. The only requirements were no drug users and no lies. She was able to find a job at a café just a few blocks from the house. She studied hard at night and promised herself that she would make a good life for her daughter. There was another young mother who worked at the café and also had a room in the house. It worked out perfectly and the two women shared schedules and babysitting. Circumstances were positive, the only worry she had was the coughing spells her daughter had on some days.

She shaved the chocolate into the mix, after adding the dry to the wet to create a thick and sweet batter which she poured into two 8” pans.

It was her daughter’s third birthday. Her vocabulary was growing, her curiosity was soaring and the love she felt for this tiny creature was immeasurable. During the past year, she was able to find a small one-bedroom apartment and on the morning of her third birthday, she began their new tradition of making her daughter’s very favorite cake, vanilla with double-chocolate frosting. With all the love she felt for her daughter, she felt sorry for her own mother. How could my mother abandon me when she found out I was carrying her grandchild? The same worry haunted her, it was the coughing and sickly days her daughter experience, I’ll have to save money to see a doctor.

The aroma was almost tangible, the thick chocolate hung in the air and she wanted to take a bite out of it. When the timer buzzed, she took the two 8” pans out of the oven and began preparing the frosting. She was glad she remembered to take the butter out and place it on the stove while the cake was baking. Now it was soft and ready to be mashed into the powdered sugar. She added baking cocoa, vanilla and a small splash of heavy cream. Mix, mix, mix. And then she added the chocolate chips for an extra chocolatey and crunchy taste.

When the cake was finished, she added 10 candles. Then, the cake was packed in a special cake carrier she’d bought on her seventh birthday. The carrier was carefully placed on the passenger’s side of the new BMW she’d purchased six months ago. She forgot to set the alarm on her house and ran upstairs to secure her home. She backed out of the driveway and sped off down the quiet road to a destination just three miles away.

She swung into the parking lot and was surprised that there were very few cars occupying the small lot. She sat in the car and thought about her little girl. The cake was in her hands as she stepped out of the car and walked on the grass just outside of the parking lot. She walked until she found the tree where her daughter was, she slowly touched the stone that read, “June 1, 2014-March 17, 2021”.

“Happy Birthday my angel,” she whispered as she lit the candles and watched, as an early summer breeze or could it be her daughter, who blew the 10 candles out.